


Nirvana

by thelilnan



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Ableist Language, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Drunk Sex, Explicit Language, Fights, First Dates, First Time, Insults, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Canon, Slurs, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this was it. Nirvana.</p><p>—</p><p>fic takes place immediately after the movie. warning for slurs/insults/Fletcher's general language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

So this was it. Nirvana.

His hands were bleeding and there was sweat in his eyes and his arms were burning but he did it. No more stops, no more “not my tempo,” “not my fucking tempo,” “NOT MY FUCKING TEMPO, NEIMAN!” He’d done it. He’d won. He gave the best motherfucking drum solo the world had ever heard. He didn’t even care what happened for the rest of the night because he’d finally shut that old fucker up. And yeah, maybe revenge was justified but he’d pushed him to his breaking point and Andrew had become something amazing. He’d done it. He couldn’t stop grinning; _didn’t_ stop grinning through the remaining pieces of the performance, despite Fletcher’s admonishing glares. _Don’t get cocky_.

Whatever. Andrew had earned the right to be a little cocky. Hell, a lot cocky. Who gives a fuck? He’d reached Nirvana.

—

Backstage, Andrew iced his hands and watched the other musicians pack up. The trumpets were chatting with the flutes, the trombones were cleaning their slides, the saxophones were acting like they were better than everyone else. Business as usual. Andrew realized then he was still smiling. His hands barely hurt.

That’s when Fletcher came in, uncharacteristically happy and congratulating individuals. Condemning others. Andrew sat up straighter, chin up proudly, and that was when Fletcher saw him.

“And you,” he singled him out, striding over with a long, dominant gate, “Don’t think you’re getting a free ride out of here because you barely squeaked by after a laughable fuck-up, Neiman.”

Something shattered in Andrew’s psyche. His heart dropped into his stomach and boiled away by the rising acid. Suddenly all the anger, pain, and sleepless nights over the past six months came flooding back to him and he stood, nearly chest-to-chest with Terrence Fletcher. In one flash of movement, his blood-soaked hand became a fist and he clocked his former teacher across the jaw, sending him tumbling back. The green room became silent and still while everyone waited for the inevitable murder of Andrew Neiman.

_He was so young_ , they’d say. _What a shame._

Then there was laughter. Low and warm, like Fletcher had just seen a baby take their first steps before falling on their ass. He was _smiling_. His hand was rubbing at the sore spot on his jaw, sure to bruise badly, but he was honest to God _smiling_. Andrew had never seen him smile; not really. Fond smirks at the beginning of their relationship, when Fletcher was easing him into his intense style of conducting, but none of those brief moments were like this. As much as he was terrified by this experience, he knew the oncoming storm would be so much worse. He just hoped Fletcher left his face in tact so his dad wouldn’t be too scarred when he had to come positively identify his body.

The storm never came; at least, not yet. Instead, Fletcher wandered back into Andrew’s personal space and regarded him appraisingly for a moment. Andrew carefully lowered his fist, which he just now recognized as sore and bleeding again. Fuck. He didn’t dare look away from Fletcher’s eyes, however. He needed all the advantage he could get if Fletcher was going to strike.

“... You hungry?”

“What,” Andrew barely croaked out. His throat was so dry.

“You know, food?” Fletcher waved a hand vaguely, “Or drinks, whatever. I’m starving. You wanna come?”

He probably took too long to respond but Fletcher was surprisingly patient at the moment. Finally, Andrew nodded, fearful eyes never leaving the older man’s. He feared what may happen if he said no to an invitation from a man he’d just sucker punched. For now, however, he was placated and seemed to suddenly remember that they were not, in fact, alone. His attentions turned to the 20 other musicians in the room, still frozen in confused fear. Fletcher scowled and turned sharply to them.

“This conversation is not a spectator sport!”

The green room filled with activity in the blink of an eye. Everyone scrambled to clean and disassemble their instruments, as if competing to see who could get out fastest. It ended up being a 20-way tie, with Andrew left alone with his sticks in his back pocket and his folder on the chair behind him. Fletcher, still inscrutable as ever, ran a hand over his head and to the back of his neck, massaging an unseen knot.

“What’re you in the mood for?” the older man posed the question so gently Andrew nearly started shaking again, “There’s a pretty good burger place a couple blocks down. And don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian, I swear to God...”

“N-no, no. I’m not. Burgers sound good; I just, uh... I gotta tell my dad. He drove me here, so...” Andrew didn’t dare presume his father would be invited. For never having met the man, Fletcher really seemed to hate him.

“Alright, yeah. I’ll wait out in the lobby.”

Awkwardly—for Andrew, at least—they both headed out the same way.

—

His dad was so proud.

Obviously, he didn’t know quite what this performance meant to Andrew or the months of pain leading up to this final, ecstatic moment, but he knew enough. He hugged him and Andrew let him, trying not to get the blood from his hands on his dad’s clothes.

“If your cousins heard what I heard...” he shook his head, grinning, “They’d shut up about that stupid football league. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Andrew’s voice was quiet, thankful, and broken. In the distance, he heard a metronome-like foot tapping.

“Let’s get you home. You ripped your hands up again.”

“Actually,” his voice broke embarrassingly, “Fletcher offered to buy me dinner. I was gonna...”

“Oh,” a beat, “Oh! Oh right, for the performance!”

“Yeah—”

“Mr. Neiman?” _Fuck_. Up strode Fletcher himself, clearly done waiting, “I’m Terrence Fletcher, Andrew’s... Mentor, I guess. I recently got fired from the Conservatory but I conducted your son while I was there.”

“Oh yes!” Andrew’s father shook Fletcher’s hand enthusiastically, though Andrew knew much of that was forced. He was a protective man, not a rude one, “Yes, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Then I appreciate you not calling the cops on me.”

They laughed. Andrew wanted to die. Maybe he had and he didn’t notice.

“Anyway, I’d hoped to take Andrew out as a congratulations for his solo tonight,” he clapped a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and shook him slightly. Andrew _must_ have died at some point. He tried to figure out when.

“Well...” a wary look between father and son, ending with a shy nod, “Of course. I mean, that’s not my decision, but all the same I hope you two have a lovely evening. Andrew, text me when you get home.”

“Okay.”

Then he was gone and Fletcher still had his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. Fuck. 

“Finally. C’mon, dipshit.”

_Fuck_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The burger place was surprisingly uncrowded for a New York pub. There was a jazz band playing, _obviously_ , with about a dozen round tables surrounding the stage in two concentric semi-circles. Farther back, in little nooks and against the wall, there were rectangular tables and booth seating. Everything was shrouded in red and purple shadows, piqued with little silver tea lights at the tables. The bar, which greeted hungry customers and jazz enthusiasts at the door, looked about about 70 years old; dark wood with hand-carved panels and scuff marks towards the floor. Andrew ran a hand over one of the bar stools as they passed, feeling the smooth  texture of worn, burgundy leather. The seats at the booths were about the same, though gold studded on the outside edges. Fletcher chose one of these booths in a darker corner where the acoustics allowed them to appreciate the different instruments in the small band.

Andrew slid into the seat beside Fletcher, careful to keep appropriate distance, while the waitress talked them through the evening’s specials and set down a bowl of pretzels. Judging by the short menu and the waitress’ enthusiasm for the three speciality burgers, Andrew gleaned that this truly was a “burger place.” As such, the selection was a little daunting; the prices even more so. His eyes flicked rapidly up and down the list, weighing his wallet against how hungry he was.

“I’m going to start with a rum and Coke,” Fletcher eyed his younger companion, hand over his mouth, “You want anything?”

Andrew looked up sharply, anxious acid rising in his stomach, “Ah... No, I’m okay.”

“Neiman, it’s on me. Don’t worry about it.”

“... Even so.”

The waitress took her leave, assuring Fletcher his drink and two waters would be right out. The older man then turned to Andrew, squinting.

“You don’t drink?”

“I’m 20.”

Fletcher stopped, frowning, “I thought you were 19.”

“I was,” Andrew scratched the back of his head, eyes squinting, “Then I had a birthday.”

He didn’t think it was possible but Fletcher’s deadpanned silence may have been worse than his yelling. Andrew sat up straighter, jaw tight.

“But do you _drink_ ,” Fletcher spoke carefully, as if Andrew were really too stupid to follow the basic line of questioning. The younger man glanced down at the tea candle before responding.

“Yes.”

“Was that so hard?” Fletcher rolled his eyes and turned to watch the band on stage. Andrew checked his phone. His dad had texted.

» _Everything ok???_

He smiled briefly, texting back one handed.

» _good for now_

“So what’s your drink?”

Andrew looked up, “Hm?”

“Drink, idiot. Beer? Whiskey? Wine? Please, God, do not say some fruity bullshit like wine coolers or mojitos.”

Andrew smirked wryly, “Mojitos are good.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“But I like beer.”

A flash of a smile. Andrew was winning.

When the waitress came back, they ordered their food without much fuss. Some kind of mushroom and Swiss burger for Fletcher, bacon burger for Andrew. Fletcher stopped the young woman before she left for the kitchen and told her he’d like a beer with his meal as well. Andrew sat on his hands and counted to 15.

“Don’t be so nervous, they’re not going to bust you.”

Andrew ate pretzels and tried to focus on the jazz. His phone buzzed six times in his pocket; three texts. His dad was still worried. He counted out measures with the songs instead of texting back, half-listening to Fletcher critique various sections of the band. The trumpets, he decided, were probably crack heads. Andrew laughed into his hand.

He didn’t expect it to be so easy. The conversation, the attention, the pleasant tightness in his chest when he would talk and Fletcher would really listen. People didn’t listen to him; not like this. And before he knew it, his beer was gone and he was rambling about some stupid story from when he was little and Fletcher’s arm was over the back of the wrap-around seat. Then Andrew stopped, self-conscious at how long he’d been talking, and he apologized hastily.

“Why’re you apologizing?” Fletcher’s voice was so soft, it didn’t even seem to come from him. Andrew shook his head, gripping his phone.

“I was talking a lot.”

There was something in Fletcher’s eyes or maybe in his mouth that Andrew desperately wanted to chase, but then it was gone and Fletcher was paying the bill. Andrew blanched, feeling guilty.

“Hey—”

“Relax,” Fletcher handed the bill back to their waitress, “You can get the next one.”

Andrew’s head was swimming.

“What’s up, Neiman, you wasted?”

Andrew shook his head and the vertigo that followed reminded him that he had basically chugged a glass and a half of artisan beer. He was tipsy.

“Fuck...”

“You’re a God damned disgrace,” Fletcher chuckled and Andrew drank it in. The bill came back just as Fletcher donned his jacket, stuffing his wallet into an unseen pocket, “Listen, I know you’re probably all jazzed out but I have real music at my place; vinyls and everything. If you’re interested.”

“Do you like anything besides jazz?”

Fletcher grinned.

“Nope.”

—

It was New York, so Fletcher lived in an apartment. It was Fletcher, so the apartment was impressive; big rooms, good ceilings, actual moldings and painted walls—none of that beige spackle shit that Andrew had at his tiny little starter apartment. Not to mention he didn’t have any IKEA furniture or Target décor like Andrew did. Instead, the tastefully spartan home was accented with old music memorabilia, from both Fletcher’s past and music history; pictures of him with award winning bands next to photos of historic concerts along the walls and bookshelves. The whole place smelled vaguely of sandalwood and vanilla. As Andrew doffed his jacket, taken by the homeowner, he noticed a bowl of potpourri on the coffee table, offsetting an air freshener plugged into the entrance hallway. Details, details, details. Andrew felt an urge to explore the space on his own time, should he get the chance.

Fletcher told him to get comfortable while he got the vinyls. Well, that was as good as any chance he’d get. Scratching his neck, Andrew wandered the space of the living room before checking the door furthest from the entrance; Fletcher’s bedroom. He didn’t dare linger there, only wanting to peek at how the older man decorated his most personal room. In the darkened room (Andrew resisted reaching in to turn on the lights), he saw a massive king bed with a dark, sleigh bed frame and a matching bureau. The two-door closet was dutifully closed, unlike another, single door, that Andrew assumed to be the bathroom. Licking his lips, he cocked his head to try and see more, just as Fletcher’s voice appeared next to his head.

“Looking for something?”

He didn’t know how long Fletcher had been watching him. Andrew swallowed, turning just a hair to look at the other man.

“... Bathroom?”

Fletcher smirked like he didn’t believe him, “Sure, through my bedroom. Though most people would take the door near the front,” he gestured to said door, also ajar, “Rather than try and peep on my personal space.”

Andrew blinked and moved away from the bedroom door.

“Hm? Suddenly don’t have to go?”

Andrew shook his head, looking to the coffee table. Another pair of glasses, beer and rum, were waiting for them. A small voice told Andrew not to but he went to the couch and took his presumed glass. Fletcher let the small invasion issue slide in favor of putting on the music he’d initially advertised.

“Now,” he began with a sharp throat clearing as he placed the first record on the turn table, “I know you probably drowned yourself in the classics while in my band. Hopefully I can introduce you to some new guys.”

Andrew responded by taking a deep drink from his beer. His phone buzzed. Four texts.

“And you might as well tell your old man you’re home. He’ll probably think I killed you otherwise.”

Finally, Andrew laughed. Fletcher joined him, sitting next to him on the couch. The music started up but before Fletcher could launch into another rant about how jazz is dying, this was _real_ music, etc., Andrew turned to him. He forced himself to make eye contact and exhaled sharply, fighting nerves.

“I didn’t testify against you because I hate you.”

Fletcher frowned into his drink but let the younger man—the boy, really—continue.

“I was pissed off. That concert... That whole day was such a nightmare and I just needed a fucking break for once! I know you don’t do exceptions or excuses but I—I flipped a fucking car! And you fucking—!!”

“If you hadn’t left your fucking _sticks—_ ”

“I KNOW!” Andrew nearly slammed his beer on the coffee table before turning fully to face Fletcher, legs tucked under himself and hands gesticulating wildly, “I know, it’s all my fucking fault, I get that! But I was still pissed off, okay?? I’m a great drummer and I deserved that part! And I was angry and I hated your guts then that lawyer started hounding me with all this shit about how abusive you are and how you drive people insane but I don’t... I don’t...”

Andrew sat back, forcing himself to breathe while he rubbed his hands over his face. His cheeks were hot.

“I think you’re the greatest conductor in the world. People need someone to push them if they’re going to be great and you do that. Everyone’s always so fucking complacent with where they are and nothing ever changes and... Fuck. I don’t know.”

He petered out to an anticlimactic stop but truthfully, he couldn’t’ve continued talking if he wanted to. There was a brief moment where Fletcher just looked at him, really _looked_ , before one large hand cupped the back of Andrew’s neck and lips were pressed against his. The younger man stared straight ahead, hands falling to his lap, while his former conductor kissed him. It was brief and soft, unlike anything Fletcher was, and all too soon, he pulled away. Andrew was left sitting there, mouth open and eyes wide, brain trying to process what the hell had just happened.

“... Neiman? You okay?”

“Oh my God.”

“Neiman. Come back to me.”

“Oh my God. Oh my _God_.”

“Christ, I’ve broken him,” Fletcher took a sip of his drink while Andrew recovered.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Jesus, Neiman, you’re not a middle school girl, are you? In which case, I definitely take that kiss back. And your beer.”

Andrew finally moved, other than muttering those three words again and again. He touched his mouth and looked at the aforementioned beer while his brain finally caught up to speed. He kissed him. _Terence Fletcher_ had _kissed_ him. He resisted repeating his previous mantra and took a gulp of his beer.

“Look, I meant it that first day when I said you were cute. That’s about it.”

Andrew choked, throat closing up suddenly and sharply. He coughed, blindly setting the glass down while he struggled for breath. He couldn’t believe this shit, “S-so I’m eye candy?? Seriously??”

“For Christ’s sake, Neiman, no! I heard you playing first, didn’t I? Then you _happened_ to be adorable as Hell. You really think I’d jeopardize my band because I have a crush on a talentless twink? Not on your God damned life.”

Andrew rubbed his cheek, still burning hot from embarrassment.

“... I’m not a twink.”

“Oh sure as fuck you are.”

“I’m taller than you!”

“Great story. Not relevant.”

Andrew had to break eye contact by this point. His beer was dripping condensation onto Fletcher’s coffee table, which was surely very expensive imported wood. He quickly moved the glass to a coaster and rubbed his hands on his jeans, brain still firing off at a mile a minute. Fletcher just watched him, sipping his drink with a pensive scowl.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Andrew finally exhaled, flopping back into the couch cushions.

“The way I see it, you have two options,” Fletcher held up his index finger, “One; thank me for dinner, call a cab home, see you next week for practice. Two,” another finger, “Finish your drink, stay over, and see what happens.”

Andrew felt his cheeks flush with color at the mere implication. He worked his tongue in his mouth before speaking again, “... What’s gonna happen?”

Fletcher shrugged, “Not sure. Probably something pretty good. We’ll have to see.”

_Fuck_. Andrew was never really a curious sort but Fletcher had him right where he wanted him. He could still feel the warm softness of his former mentor’s lips against his own and, okay, it’s not like he hadn’t thought of that before. Shamefully, there were nights when he was so fucked up over Whiplash or whatever else that he angrily shoved a hand down his pants and cursed Fletcher until he saw God. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he wanted from the _much_ older man but...

But what?

Andrew wrung his hands, staring at the bled-through cotton of the bandages, seeing the dirt under his own nails. He was suddenly aware how dirty he was; he probably smelled awful. Did Fletcher really go for that?

“Earth to Neiman. In or out?”

Andrew met his eyes again; intense blue and nervous brown.

“In.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

He drank too much, probably. Fletcher did too. Andrew personally blamed his nerves for his heroic consumption of beer while Fletcher remained an enigma. Maybe the age difference was a bit much to get around. It almost was too much for Andrew to get around, constantly remembering that the man was quite literally old enough to be his father and then some. But then Fletcher would lean close, large hand on his thigh, and mutter into Andrew’s ear, pushing all of his anxieties out of his mind for the time being. Andrew covered his face, falling over on the couch, and Fletcher came with him. Then they were sprawled out on the couch with Fletcher crawling over him, looking predatory in a way that made Andrew honest to God giddy, and wasn’t that just pathetic? Andrew giggled into his hands and shifted under the other man, legs kicking.

“You’re such a fucking girl, Andrew... Giggling like a... Fuck, hold still.”

Andrew just laughed louder, head back, cheeks flushed, as Fletcher rearranged the younger man into a more acceptable position. Andrew didn’t protest, too distracted by the sound of his own laughter and the warm, strong weight of Fletcher’s hands on him. Fuck, that was nice. He didn’t often like being touched but when Fletcher did it, and with such purpose, Andrew found himself craving more. He pulled his hands away from his face, meeting the eyes of the older man, who was now towering over him, strong arms bracketing the younger man’s head. Andrew’s legs were on either sides of Fletcher’s hips; an extremely compromising position, should anyone walk in. They wouldn’t, though. Andrew realized this was one of the few times the two of them had ever been truly alone. The thought made something in his chest flutter.

“God damn it, you are adorable.”

Andrew grinned wider, shifting his position under him, “Am I?”

“Don’t get cocky, kid.”

“You think I’m cute,” Andrew sighed wistfully, wiggling a bit. Fletcher laughed, head down, before slowly lowering himself so he and the boy were chest-to-chest, a breath away from something more. Andrew giggled quietly and pressed up to initiate the kiss this time. It lasted barely a second before Fletcher pulled away.

“Rushing,” Fletcher admonished.

“Dragging,” Andrew accused.

They agreed to disagree.

After that it was a blur of kissing and touching and so much heat Andrew could barely breathe. When Fletcher broke the kiss again, so many minutes later, Andrew accidentally let out an embarrassingly needy whine. This cued another bout of laughter from the older man. 

“Christ, Neiman, you a virgin?”

Andrew licked his lips, now plush and pink from the kissing, “Debatable.”

Fletcher swore and kissed him again, “You fucking disgrace.”

“Shu’up,” Andrew mumbled back. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered; not the awkward kisses from high school or the inexperienced, unfinished handjobs at parties where Andrew was an unwanted guest, dragged along by friends he thought he had. It didn’t matter because now he had someone who _did_ care, who _wanted_ him to be there. Someone who wanted _him_. Andrew kissed Fletcher like his life depended on it, arms around his broad shoulders and legs coming up to lock around his hips. Now that he had this, he refused to let it slip away.

Thankfully, Fletcher didn’t mind. He could tell the older man found his desperate enthusiasm amusing through the careful, teasing touches and brief, breath-taking kisses. Everything he did made Andrew want more. He pressed into everything, demanding rougher touches, deeper kisses, and more contact, but Fletcher had the final say. Neiman would only get exactly what he wanted to give him.

They kissed, they rutted, until Andrew couldn’t hold back his pathetic, keening whines anymore. Fletcher’s hand was on his stomach, agonizingly close to his groin, and Andrew couldn’t wait. Blindly, he grabbed Fletcher’s hand and shoved it downwards.

“Rushing.”

“Dragging! _Please_ ,” Andrew pleaded desperately. His hand tightened on Fletcher’s.

“Not quite my tempo,” Fletcher practically mouthed the words into his cheek, snapping his hand away from where Andrew needed it most.

“Your tempo sucks! Please, just—”

“Say it again.” Andrew gasped sharply as he felt that same hand finally press down against the bulge in his dress pants.

“Your tempo—”

“No, dumb ass! I want you to beg! Jesus Christ, you really are a virgin.”

“Fuck you,” Andrew shoved his fists into the solid chest above him, but the impact was minimal. Fletcher pressed harder on his crotch and Andrew whined, ending with a sob.

“Beg, you idiot.”

“Please,” Andrew choked, fingers digging into the immaculate black fabric of Fletcher’s favorite shirt. The hand didn’t move.

“Louder.”

“Please!”

“Louder!”

“PLEASE FUCK ME!” Andrew was shaking, mouth open and head back. Fletcher hadn’t even _done_ anything yet here he was, already on the edge. If he came in his pants, he’d never hear the end of it.

“LOUDER!”

And that was it. With a short, choking sound, Andrew’s hips bucked and he pulled at Fletcher’s shirt, seeing stars behind his tightly shut eyelids. Mortification came just as quick as his orgasm, neither of which was dulled by the alcohol in his veins. When reality settled in, slow and hazy, Andrew realized just how fucked he was—though not in any way he’d wanted.

“You are such a disappointment to me.”

Andrew, bizarrely enough, grinned. Fletcher laughed.

“You fucking faggot, get up.”

Andrew obeyed. Fletcher stood as well; now it was evident that Andrew had been the only one to find relief. Unconsciously, he chewed his lip, his inebriated and pleasure-addled mind stumbling after the uptake.

“Uh, princess? My eyes are up here.”

Andrew met them, briefly, before falling violently to his knees. Determination granted him sober-levels of coordination and enough time to shove Fletcher’s pants down to his thighs before the older man could react. He yelled, though mostly out of shock, and Andrew pressed his mouth to the front of heather grey boxer briefs.

“Oh... _Fuck_ , Andrew.”

There was a hand in his hair. Andrew closed his eyes and concentrated on mapping Fletcher’s length with his mouth as a primary instinct. He’d never done this before and never had it done for him; all he had for reference were the videos he’d seen online, though the cynical part of his mind knew much of that was showmanship rather than actual pleasure. Still he was determined to use this paltry knowledge to feel out the technique and bring Fletcher to climax, as he had for him. It helped that he could read Fletcher’s responses via the hand tightening in his hair and the low, hitched moans as he licked and sucked messily through the heather grey fabric. Fletcher groaned—a deep, beautiful sound—when Andrew reached the clothed tip and lapped hungrily at the growing stain there.

“That’s it...” Fletcher was breathless. Andrew finally hazarded a glance upward and saw he was watching him, eyes half closed and looking a little lost. For the sake of his ego, Andrew ignored the fact the man had drank almost four rum and Cokes and chose to believe it was _entirely_ his own doing. The thought inspired pride and enthusiasm; enough to make him run his hands up Fletcher’s thighs and round the back, almost gripping his ass.

Fletcher had just about had it with being teased by that point, given the other hand now in his hair, fingers tightening on Andrew’s short, dark locks. That was fine; Andrew couldn’t stand the texture of the cloth anymore and found himself craving to actually have Fletcher in his mouth, nothing separating them. Clumsily, he hooked his fingers into the thick, white waistband, ready to remove the last barrier between them, when the hands in his hair tightened. Andrew whimpered, pressing his forehead to Fletcher’s hip.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Andrew glared up at him through hazy eyes and yanked his briefs down. Fletcher chuckled warmly yet again, petting the unruly locks. Before he could protest further or try to stop him again, Andrew took as much as he could into his mouth, pushing past his gag reflex and willing himself to stay. Fletcher exhaled sharply, hands tightening, as Andrew swallowed around him. It wasn’t enough. He pushed further down his cock until his nose was pressed against the older man’s lower stomach, mouth and throat feeling full. His hands gripped the backs of Fletcher’s thighs as he counted out measures, throat convulsing uncomfortably and jaw beginning to ache. He could do this. He _needed_ to do this. He felt saliva dribble out the corner of his stretched lips.

“Fuck’s sake, Andrew, don’t choke yourself on it...”

Andrew grunted, holding for another count of four before pulling off and gasping for air. His lips were red and spit-slick, the color almost matching the blush in his cheeks. He looked up again at Fletcher, searching for approval.

“Christ...”

That was enough. Andrew took him into his mouth again, head bobbing and jaw slack. He was only allowed to do so for a short while—probably not even more than three counts—before Fletcher’s hands tightened in his hair, drawing a sharp noise from the boy.

“Not quite my tempo.”

Andrew’s fingers dug into his thighs. Then his head was being guided into a rhythm that he assumed more closely reflected Fletcher’s internal metronome; and honestly, fuck that. He glared up at him as Fletcher fucked his mouth, eyes watering.

“Don’t be such a brat, Neiman.”

Andrew dug his fingernails into Fletcher’s thighs and gagged around him. The conductor didn’t let up. His hands yanked his hair and his hips pistoned, thighs tensing rhythmically. Andrew could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. He could do this. He had to do this.

Then suddenly his head was yanked back and Andrew was able to yet again gasp for air. One hand disappeared from his head, wrapping around Fletcher’s cock and pumping quickly. Andrew’s eyes flicked nervously from the cock in front of him to Fletcher’s face, seeing the older man’s jaw clench and eyebrows knit. Andrew closed his eyes.

Three times. Andrew flinched at the first one, mostly because it covered his left eye. The other two hit his cheek and mouth, sending a sharp thrill through to his groin. Then it was over and Fletcher had fallen back onto the couch, both hands now cupping Andrew’s face. A thumb lazily traced through the streak that had fallen over the ridge of Andrew’s cheekbone and pushed into his mouth. Andrew’s hands spasmed on the tops of Fletcher’s thighs as he sucked his thumb clean. The taste was interesting; masculine, thick, salty. Not bad. Andrew met Fletcher’s eyes as he pulled his thumb away.

“You are...” the older man sighed and closed his eyes, “So fucking disgusting right now.”

“What??” Andrew’s voice cracked. He hadn’t realized how sore his throat was.

“You’re caked in sweat, cum, and blood, Neiman. You’re getting a shower and going straight to bed. Probably have a hell of a hangover to deal with tomorrow...”

Andrew sputtered as he was manhandled back into a standing position, watching as Fletcher pulled up his own pants enough to cover himself. He looked at his hands; Fletcher was right. Blood.

“Fuck.”

“Come on, dipshit. Shower. Now.”

Andrew stumbled alongside the older man, alcohol now overwhelming him more so than before their misguided fumblings had begun. The apartment was now a smear of beiges and browns piqued with black, then bright white when they found the bathroom. Andrew hissed, hands up over his eyes, while Fletcher ran the shower.

“I’m not letting you watch me shower...” Andrew mumbled through a yawn, curled up against the wall while Fletcher sat on the toilet lid. Fletcher furrowed his brow before shaking his head.

“Like I’d wanna see your scrawny ass in my shower...”

Andrew glared halfheartedly. Mostly, he wanted to sleep.

Despite Fletcher’s protests, he did watch Andrew’s scrawny ass take that shower, though the rum and residual pleasure of orgasm made it difficult to keep his eyes open. Andrew seemed to be suffering a similar affliction, as he stumbled now and then in the glass-walled, single-person shower. Thankfully he would catch himself with his hands, stinging from the hot water, or simply smack into the tile or glass on either side of him, and mumble something indistinctive even to his own ears.

Fletcher didn’t have an shampoo for obvious reasons, but he did have shower gel and Andrew used this to clean himself of the dirt, sweat, blood, and cum he found himself disgustingly covered in, though this too burned the open patches of the webbing on his hands. Soon enough, he was able to pass Fletcher’s standards of hygiene and the older man stood, stumbling, and turned off the water. Andrew shrunk to the far end of the shallow shower, embarrassed as he was intoxicated by being so exposed before the older man. Fletcher paid this no mind and pulled him from the shower by his wrists before scrubbing the younger man down with a large, fluffy towel. Andrew squirmed, falling back against the wall, but was otherwise helpless. Finally, Fletcher deemed him dry enough and ushered him over to the seductively large, king size bed waiting for the two of them in the dark. Andrew’s feet were unsteady on the soft, carpeted ground, though the hand in the middle of his back attempted to guide him. Something was still wrong.

“My underwear—”

“You’ll be out cold in less than five minutes, Neiman. You’ll survive,” Fletcher, for his part, shed his shirt and dress pants and crawled into bed alongside the younger man. Andrew tried to protest but the darkness was so tempting, the bed was so soft, and Fletcher’s strong arm around his middle made him feel so safe. He easily fell asleep in less than five minute’s time, hair wet and breathing in Fletcher’s cologne, while the older man followed him into drunken unconsciousness.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Coffee.

Andrew woke up lying on his front, alone, with Fletcher’s sheets around his hips and the smell of coffee wafting in through the barely open door. He recognized these things seconds before his headache made itself known with a dull but persistent throbbing behind his eyes. He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head, hoping to sleep again so the hangover would pass. But... _Coffee_. That sounded good.

Gingerly, he removed the pillow from his head and attempted to sit up but this made his stomach roll unpleasantly and he stopped, breathing deeply to settle it. Andrew realized then, while waiting for his nausea to fade, that he was, in fact, naked. Memories of his discarded clothes came to him unhurriedly and foggily, as if it were no pressing matter. He tried to recall where his clothes might be, running a hand through his wild hair. Sleepy eyes darted about the darkened room.

The floor was clean. Andrew expected no less. With herculean effort, he stumbled from the bed to the bathroom, finding it similarly clean and blindingly white. He hissed but forced himself inside so he could freshen up his breath with a swig of Fletcher’s mouthwash. His head was still killing him and he was _still_ naked, though thankfully devoid of any bruises or otherwise that might hint at the night previous. Andrew got a bit lost in thought while wading through the alcohol-hazed memories but snapped out of it when another enticing waft of coffee caught his attention. _Right_.

For lack of better options than parading out naked or wrapped in a sheet like every Rom-Com cliché, Andrew raided Fletcher’s drawers. Pushing every anxious thought from his head, he pulled a pair of sweatpants on and stumbled out of the darkened room to find that elusive coffee, wincing at the sharp pain in his knees as he walked. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

“Well, well. Good morning, useless,” Andrew winced again at the volume at which Fletcher said this, calling out from the kitchen, “Nice pants.”

“I couldn’t find mine.”

“Did a load of laundry,” Fletcher turned back to the stove, on which he was frying what appeared to be eggs, “For a scrawny little squeaker, you sweat a _lot_. And you basically ruined your panties when you rushed that tempo.”

“That’s not even funny,” Andrew collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. Blessedly, coffee and ibuprofen were waiting for him. He gulped both down greedily, though neither fixed him as soon as he would’ve liked. Fletcher busied himself with breakfast and Andrew lost himself in the sounds and smells of bacon, sausage, and eggs. 

The coffee burned his tongue.

“Sausage or bacon?”

“Bacon,” Andrew rubbed at one eye. His head pounded.

“Right answer. The sausage is mine.”

He looked up just as his plate of eggs, over easy, and bacon were set in front of him. He half-expected a plate of pancakes and a kiss on his forehead to follow, but of course, neither happened. Fletcher took a seat beside him and dug into his breakfast without a moment’s pause. Andrew selected a strip of bacon to gnaw while he continued to process the night before.

“... Do you do this often?”

“Breakfast? Religiously.”

Andrew huffed, “Fuck students.”

“You’re not my student. You’re barely my drummer.”

“Okay, do you fuck _former students_ often?”

“Not on your life.”

Andrew finished his bacon.

“My turn,” Fletcher sat back, coffee in hand, “Aspergers or autism?”

Andrew blinked; somehow he managed to make _that_ deadpanned.

“I don’t have an official diagnosis.”

“No meds?”

“It’s not your turn anymore. Why did you fuck me?”

Fletcher ran a hand over his mouth before sitting back up, interested once more in his breakfast rather than his protégée, “You’re cute.”

“Girls think I’m cute. They don’t fuck me.”

“Maybe it’s the same reason you fucked me, dipshit,” they shared a hard look before Andrew forfeited. He crossed his arms and regarded his coffee morosely.

Then Fletcher’s foot touched his. Andrew looked back up and was startled, yet again, to see Fletcher’s smile. It wasn’t a full smile this time; more like a half-cocked smirk. Andrew found the openness of his expression unsettling and looked back at the floor.

“... Are we going to do this again?”

Fletcher grinned, “Not your turn.”

Their banter was interrupted by a series of forceful knocks on the front door, startling Andrew and alerting Fletcher. The older man went to answer it before whoever was on the other side knocked it down, but not before running a hand through Andrew’s mess of unruly, bed head curls on his way out. The younger man blushed and rubbed the back of his neck.

It was the police.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. We’re responding to a missing persons call. Does the name Andrew Neiman mean anything to you?”

In the kitchen, Andrew’s hand slapped his left thigh. Where was his phone?

“... Neiman!” Fletcher barked a moment later. Fuck. He was screwed. Obediently, he scrambled to the front door, probably looking a bit wild; hair a mess, cheeks bright, and being shirtless didn’t exactly spell innocence. He crossed his arms again, though this time to cling to the shreds of modesty he had left (if any).

“You’re Andrew Neiman?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Missing persons call. Would you be willing to—”

“It was my dad, wasn’t it,” Andrew hugged himself, mortification flaring in his chest. He could feel Fletcher’s incredulous glare, “Jim Neiman?”

The officers shared a look, “Er, yes. If you could quickly speak with us in the hall.”

Andrew looked at Fletcher before the older man moved aside, clearly done with the conversation. The door shut behind him, leaving him with the inquiring officers, who seemed a little more than judgmental at his state of undress. Andrew counted out a double time swing to keep himself calm.

“Mr. Neiman, can you confirm that you are with this man of your own free will?”

“Yes,” Andrew met their eyes sharply before returning to his count. His fingers tapped restlessly in his folded arms.

“And that you are confident in your safety? Physical or otherwise?”

“ _Yes_. What did my dad even say?”

The other officer, the shorter one, spoke up, “It’s not that. It’s...”

Fletcher’s reputation had preceded him. Andrew rubbed his mouth, eyebrows knit.

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

They didn’t seem convinced but without admitted cause for concern, they were in no position to ‘rescue’ Andrew. They wished him a good morning and went on their way, though not without reminding him to call his father, for everyone’s sake. Andrew agreed to do so, silently dreading having to explain why he was so busy as to not have time for a ‘home safe’ text; not even a routine ‘good morning.’ Andrew’s stomach knotted as he walked back to the living room to retrieve his phone. Six texts and two missed calls. Andrew closed his eyes. Fuck _._

“Your dad actually called you a missing person?” _Fuck_. When did Fletcher learn to walk so quietly? Andrew jumped, stumbling as he turned around. Thankfully, Fletcher stabilized him before he cracked his head on the coffee table. The strong hand on his lower back, skin against skin, made Andrew flush, knees a little weak. The older man noticed, leaning a fraction of an inch closer, smirk ghosting Andrew’s lips.

“You alright there, squeaker?”

Andrew kissed him and hated himself for it. As he kissed him, Fletcher slipped the phone out of his hand and tossed it to the couch. Andrew mumbled something; probably protesting or cursing the conductor out; he wasn’t entirely sure himself. He didn’t especially care. All he really cared about at this moment were the large, rough hands moving from his back to his waist, gripping just tight enough to tease him. Then Fletcher began walking him backwards until Andrew felt the wall meet him, pinning him there. Andrew moaned into Fletcher’s mouth, embarrassment intensifying as Fletcher chuckled. Was that laugh ever _not_ condescending?

“You eager little slut,” the older man practically purred. Andrew’s knees went weak yet again. He cursed his idiot decision to wear sweatpants. _Fletcher’s_ sweatpants.

Andrew broke the kiss suddenly, gasping against the conductor’s mouth, “I need my phone.”

“So your dad doesn’t think I killed you.”

“The police would say the same.”

Fletcher scoffed and released Andrew, “Throw a couple chairs at students and suddenly you’re a serial killer. Fuck this, I’m showering.”

Andrew watched him leave, wishing for the same, if only to salvage his train wreck hair. Sighing, he ran a hand through the aforementioned mop and grabbed his discarded phone from the couch. As he unlocked it, it began to ring.

He answered.

“Hey.”

“Oh thank God! Where have you been??”

Andrew heard the shower run from two rooms away, loud enough to let him know both doors were open. His mouth twitched.

“At Fletcher’s,” he began to pace around the living room, “After dinner we went to his place to listen to jazz records.”

“That’s not a euphemism, is it?”

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, rounding the table again, “I had a couple beers. That’s it. Decided to crash here. On the couch.”

The sound of relief was a quiet but Andrew heard it.

“You’re not off the hook for not answering your phone OR the drinking... but I’m glad everything’s okay,” a pause, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Everything’s okay.”

“Okay,” he wasn’t convinced but Andrew didn’t really care, “Talk to you later then. Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up. Not a second later, Fletcher, wet and towel-clad, was in the doorway, dripping on the floor. Andrew stared, eyes wide and hands clenched on his phone. It wasn’t as if those tight black shirts had left much to the imagination anyway but for a guy in his mid-50s, Fletcher was fucking ripped. Andrew swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“Are you completely fucking stupid?”

“... What?”

“Announcing my shower? Doors— _both_ doors—open? Does that not give you a clue?”

Andrew blinked.

“Get in here, genius.”

Now he got it. Trying not to trip over himself, Andrew followed quickly and obediently behind his conductor into the shower and later, the bedroom, where they spent most of their day, talking, arguing, fucking. They learned a lot about each other in those long hours and Andrew even learned a lot about himself, like that he _did_ in fact like anal sex, thanks very much.

The next day, Fletcher finally kicked him out though mostly due to a prior obligation. Andrew gathered his clothes, practically unused the entire day prior, and Fletcher dutifully walked him out the front door, smirking while Andrew blushed as the handful of people who stared a little too long at the many, many hickeys decorating his neck.

“You’re such an asshole,” Andrew grunted angrily at the sidewalk as they exited the building. Fletcher didn’t argue; instead, he pulled the younger man close and gave him one last, lingering kiss that left Andrew a little dizzy. Fletcher smirked again.

“Text me about tomorrow. There’s a show in the park I think you’ll like. Or if not, I’ll just bring you back here for a couple hours.”

Andrew blushed deeply, now grinning at the sidewalk, “Okay.”

Another kiss, “See you soon, Andrew.”

On the walk home, Andrew couldn’t stop grinning. 

This was it. Nirvana.

 

End.

 


End file.
